Archive of Our Own

Goffredo Tedesco, Patriarch of Venice, waited until he heard the front door of his apartment click shut with a quiet finality - waited for several thundering heartbeats, in the stifling silence - waited until he was sure Bellini had gone - before he let his head fall back against the bedroom door with a thump. He stayed there, taking deep shuddering breaths, wishing his vape wasn’t on the table in the adjoining room; he really could have used a stabilizing hit of nicotine. 

Aldo.  

Or maybe several stabilizing hits of nicotine. 

He looked down at his hands and realized his right palm was still coated in Bellini’s cum - the realization shot a bolt of heat through him, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the insistence of his own arousal, dropping his head back against the door with a groan. He realized his knees were trembling and gave a low chuckle, shaking his head, feeling his greying curls scuff against the wood. 

Aldo.

When had that irritating little Italian-American gotten under his skin so thoroughly? And worse, when had Goffredo stopped wanting him out? 

After another moment, he pushed himself upright, staggering to the en suite to wash his hands. The warm water and the scent of his soap (tobacco-sandalwood-leather) grounded him, brought him back to reality, and then he caught sight of himself in the mirror - hair mussed, eyes wide and dark and hot , and he couldn’t even bring himself to laugh. Arousal simmered beneath the surface and he was too drained to even deny its intensity. 

Worse, it wasn’t solely physical lust - that, he could handle, had dealt with in the past when his fancy had been caught, his interest piqued. No, there was something more to Bellini, something utterly compelling about his deliberately poised exterior that hinted at a passionate man beneath, and Goffredo simply could not resist trying to pry the lid off at every opportunity. 

Their initial arguments had been bad enough - Goffredo, amused and entertained and irritated, baiting Bellini to greater and greater frustration, greater displays of emotion, greater heights of passion, until - 

Until. 

One night he’d gone too far - he’d goaded Bellini, teased him for his flustered Italian, teased him with a deliberately provocative innuendo, but then he’d reached out to mock, to touch, and discovered - discovered that - Bellini was aroused. Goffredo had realized his mistake immediately and was a breath away from withdrawing and changing the subject, when he’d looked up and noticed the flush in Bellini’s cheeks, the shocked eye contact, the breathless pause: it wasn’t simply shame and mortification. Bellini looked wrecked and vulnerable and hungry . 

And Goffredo had felt the lust spear through him like a bolt of lightning. 

Bellini…eccitato? Con me? 

Per me? 

And then he hadn’t been able to resist the wicked delight, to push further, to tease, some part of him hoping that Bellini would give in to the temptation and - 

But he hadn’t. Instead Bellini had backed away from the fullness of the moment, tried to deny his own hunger, tried to fight off his own reaction, and Goffredo had let him go. But he stood there by the door for several long moments afterwards, rubbing the back of that hand with the thumb of the other, thinking. Remembering. Considering. Speculating. Imagining. 

And he’d lain in bed that night, arousal still simmering in his veins, wondering if Bellini was continuing the fight against his arousal in his own bed. Would he simply will himself to sleep? Bellini was notoriously disciplined. Or would he calmly, efficiently deal with his own arousal? Bellini was notoriously practical. Or was he - Goffredo’s hands had gripped the blankets - or was he lying awake, aroused and frustrated and - the blankets twisted tight in his hands - was he thinking of Goffredo? Would he think of Goffredo when he - ? 

Goffredo realized that his hands were now gripping his bathroom counter hard enough to make his knuckles ache. Forcing himself to relax his grip, he made his way back to the sitting room, pretending his eyes would not immediately fly to the spot on the kitchen counter where he’d had Bellini bent over the counter less than a half hour ago, fumbling up under his cassock to feel him, hot skin, hard as stone and desperate against his palm. 

Goffredo found his vape and flung himself into a wingback chair, scrubbing a hand over his face, allowing himself this breach of composure in his apartment late at night. He let his eyes wander through the cherry-scented cloud, remembering with each glance the places he’d cornered Bellini in that very room in the previous months. To his surprise Bellini had maintained the charade - that this unspoken agreement was borne of anger, frustration, mutual dislike; Bellini returned to him again and again under the pretense of argument, except for that hunger in his eyes. And Goffredo was fascinated, enthralled, and could not stop himself from being drawn in more and more each time. 

Bellini clearly hungered for it - for the passion, the touch. 

He would clearly never hunger for Goffredo, the man. It would have to be enough. 

For now, though, Goffredo rubbed himself idly through his slacks, eyes landing on the opposite wingback chair, where he’d shoved Bellini roughly down only a handful of days ago and demanded a performance. He’d been more on edge than usual, something Bellini had said hitting a nerve, and rather than risk verbal vulnerability he’d chosen to humiliate Bellini a little. And Bellini had chosen to allow him, for reasons Goffredo did not understand.

It had backfired worse than he could ever have imagined. 

Because once he’d actually seen Bellini’s cock, instead of simply rubbing it through a few layers of fabric, he couldn’t stop wanting it. Couldn’t stop himself from imagining different scenarios where he could reach out and touch without pushing too far, too fast, and scaring Bellini away. Because this was rapidly becoming one of the most important outlets in Goffredo’s life.  

He adjusted his sprawl in the chair and refused to think about the nights he sat at his scrivania , pretending to study or write or complete paperwork, the whole time swallowing his heartbeat wondering if Bellini was on his way. The nights he stayed up too late just in case, not able to focus on the words in front of him, tense, ears pricked for the sound of footsteps in the hallway, his door swinging open, the first tone of Bellini’s voice, not wanting to miss the opportunity. 

The nights Bellini did not come to him. Ancora un'ora , then I’ll sleep… 

But when he did, the way Bellini would enter the apartment braced for argument - without knocking, although oftentimes clearly debating if he should have - and Dio , those stupide e meticolose practicalities that Goffredo was learning to observe, learning to anticipate. Bellini’s shoulders would be set, his hands clenched, his eyes fiery, those sweeping lashes fluttering with the intensity of his emotion - and Goffredo would put on his best show: indifferenza, noia, derisione . Each exchange pushed the tension higher until Goffredo would rise and crowd Bellini back, daring him to fight, daring him to make the move that would change everything. 

But Bellini would not - would instead only leave himself so willingly open and so desperately vulnerable and Goffredo was not a strong enough man to resist that temptation. 

He opened his slacks, still looking at the opposite chair, and felt the wet spot on his silk boxers. His fingers stroked the smooth slick fabric over his damp cock as he remembered Bellini’s hands shaking to reveal himself, to touch himself, to do as Goffredo demanded in spite of his clear mortification. Goffredo had almost stopped him several times, had almost placed his hands over Bellini’s - but then what? Tell him he didn’t have to do this to himself? Bellini would never believe him.

Worse, bat his hands away and offer to do this for him? Bellini may be a smaller man, but Goffredo had no doubt that he could throw a mean right hook if sincerely provoked. There was still a teenager from the streets of an unforgiving New York City in there somewhere. 

And maybe that was why Goffredo could see through the artful composure so easily - because one actor recognized another. Because what was Goffredo besides an exceptionally well-calculated brand of bravado and extravagance? And while Goffredo had done as best he could to work through his own past enough that it did not interrupt his present, there were still moments in which Bellini - by doing nothing but being exactly himself - would evoke a sensory memory of the frightened, angry, vulnerable, desperate boy that Goffredo used to be. 

So maybe that was why he’d chosen humiliation, a few days ago. Had punished them both with a one-sided sexual act that had ended up not being sexual at all. The tears of anger and frustration hot on Bellini’s cheeks had tortured Goffredo for days - with guilt, with compassion, with desire. Should he have stopped and acknowledged he’d gone too far? Should he have wiped the tears away with a caress? Should he have dared himself to make the move that changed everything? 

And again, maybe that was why he’d barely been able to stop himself from drawing Bellini into an embrace tonight - instead pressing him forward over the kitchen counter and reaching for him, up under his cassock, giving in to the temptation to unzip his slacks and feel that cock that he couldn’t stop remembering; his hip against Bellini’s ass so the smaller man wouldn’t feel Goffredo’s own erection. He could feel Bellini’s shallow breaths, back rigid against his palm, fighting not to get away but to demonstrate that he was not going to give in so easily to his own pleasure. 

“ Non combattere, bellezzo ,” Goffredo whispered now, his voice a little hoarse, feeling the wet spot bloom on his boxers as he remembered the way Bellini had held himself with iron control - until the zipper had rasped downwards, and then the small thrusts of his hips when Goffredo had closed a hand around him, as if he couldn’t help himself from responding. “ Lo vogliamo, caro, lasciamelo. ” He teased the head of his cock through the silk, imagining being able to take his time with Bellini, feel the man grow hotter and wetter, feel him start to writhe against Goffredo’s body instead of forcing himself to stillness. 

And maybe he should have turned his own hips and let Bellini feel the full effect he was having. Goffredo finally drew his cock out from the slit in his boxers, full and thick and hot in his hand, skin on skin, and imagined Bellini’s reaction: shock, certainly, but - desire? Would he reciprocate? Would he allow himself to reciprocate? Would he be angry at Goffredo for changing the nature of their encounter, by making it mutual? For forcing them to confront the desire in the room?

Goffredo watched his right hand move on his cock, the same hand that had unzipped Bellini’s slacks and finally felt the heat of his erection - no humiliation this time, just pleasure. Goffredo’s eyes fluttered and he shifted his hips up into his own touch, remembering the noise that Bellini had made when Goffredo wrapped his balm around the burning hot skin. 

“ Silenzio ,” he whispered to himself now, his cheeks flushed, his other hand digging into the upholstery as he sped up his pace, his palm mimicking the pace he’d set for Bellini earlier this evening. Remembering the way Bellini had arched up against the hand on the small of his back, the way his whole body trembled like an echo of Goffredo’s thundering heart, the way the tension in his frame had wound tighter and tighter until Goffredo felt him throb and cupped his hand to catch Bellini’s release. 

Goffredo’s thighs jerked and he groaned as he cupped his hand again and captured his own release, warm salty pleasure filling his palm for the second time that evening. He drew his hand away, trying not to drip any on his slacks, and paused for a moment to breathe and card his other hand - sore from its tense grip on the armrest - through his curls. 

Was it cruel of him, to leave Bellini like that so quickly afterward? Probably. But there was absolutely no way he could have maintained the charade - and he didn’t know which would crush Bellini’s dignity further: to abandon him seconds after orgasm, or to rut against him with equal desire. So he’d chosen the familiar hurt, and escaped with the barest shreds of his own facade intact. 

He dragged his hand from his curls and scrubbed it across his stubble one last time, mustering the strength to drag himself to his feet and towards the bathroom again, to wash up and prepare to sleep. And to commence his evening ritual of pretending he wasn’t imagining what it might be like if Bellini didn’t flee immediately into the night, afterward, every single time. 

**

The Conclave was respite and torture. The Conclave was focus and distraction. The Conclave was context and purpose and Goffredo could throw himself back into the priestly ambition that gave him meaning. Could recommit to the beliefs on which he fixed his heart: la fine della divisione, il ritorno alla fede e alla tradizione . Because he loved the Church as he loved nothing else: it was his santuario , his asilo , his scopo , and he would truly lay down his life to protect Her. 

And the Conclave was an unwitting opportunity to steal glances at Bellini throughout the day, at mealtimes, during breaks between votes, in the evenings when the cardinals were breaking into factions, tucked into various corners of the Casa Santa Marta. And every time he looked, Bellini’s eyes were trained on one thing: 

Cardinal Lawrence. 

Goffredo had known, but he hadn’t know. Bellini and Lawrence had been friends for decades and somehow, the thought had never occurred to him that Bellini would harbor such an affection and not bring it forth. Bellini was stubborn, but he was also incredibly gentle and genuine and compassionate and practical and deeply invested in his friends. 

(In anyone but Goffredo.) 

And he was brave, and Lawrence was kind and thoughtful and considerate ( ma un sciocco ) and there was no way that talking to Lawrence could be worse than allowing Goffredo to touch him, could it? Worse than returning to Goffredo’s apartment over and over again, multiple nights each week, to carry out their ritual of longing? 

And he realized that Bellini couldn’t be going to Lawrence with his desire because he was spending his evenings with Goffredo. Perhaps that was why he was going to Goffredo. Un sostituto. Which was a new, unexpected pain. 

Then on the last evening of the Conclave, when Goffredo had worked himself into a frenzy, and that new little cardinal, giovane e assurdo , had changed the world around them, only then had Goffredo noticed: the way Lawrence watched Benitez. 

And he understood Bellini all over again. 

**

“ Se fosse Tommaso ,” Goffredo mused, without preamble, “would you be in there with him right now? Getting on your knees for him like I could make you do for me?”

He didn’t look up, knowing that he was risking giving himself away with the question, but he heard rather than saw the hurt land in Bellini, pointed and deep. 

 Perché non andare da lui? Why not just go to him; why even bother coming here, to me.

He kept his questions and his movements slow and unhurried, baiting Bellini, testing him, provoking him, waiting to see what would happen. As though they were walking on the edge of the familiar, but there was a precipice of unknown nearby. Bellini seemed different somehow tonight: hollowed yet filled with a different kind of vigor, a renewed passion, a new strength. Goffredo could almost taste it, and he was desperate to see what would come of it tonight., even as he went through the motions of indifferenza , setting down his mantle, unbuttoning his cassock. 

“Benitez,” said Bellini lowly, deliberately, with conviction,“is twice the man you will ever be.”

Goffredo’s head snapped up and his mind went blank. Like an actor gone off script in front of a live audience, he was at a complete loss. This wasn’t part of the game. This was new. 

For a split second he found himself absurdly longing for the ugly, hurtful, toxic, yet mutual understanding they’d somehow developed over the past year, but never voiced aloud. Could he tear Bellini down? Could he maneuver them back into their roles, at least one more night? Bellini was here in his apartment and real and so close, and Goffredo found himself uncharacteristically afraid that even this ghost of a connection would end just as he was realizing how much he needed it. 

“ Finocchio ,” Goffredo breathed, lost, searching instead of scathing, and he saw Bellini notice it. Worse, Bellini acknowledged it: “Yes,” he said simply, and Goffredo gaped at him, and they both realized at the same time that neither man knew what was going to happen next. 

So Goffredo grasped at the only real thing: the pain. “So you’ll go to him now, instead?” he spat. “ Dopo Tomasso, passerai a Vincente? Ma ha davvero importanza quando sei in ginocchio ?” He stalked closer, eyes burning. Bellini regarded him steadily, unmoving, unmoved. “Does it even matter which man? Per quale uomo ti prostituirai ?”

He was out of control, now, and Bellini’s flinch only fed the flames. He couldn’t catch himself, couldn’t stop himself, could only picture the things he wanted so badly but knew now that he could never have. And heard them pouring out of his mouth. “And will you think of Tommaso when Vincente is before you? Eh? Il nome di Tommaso in your mouth when his hands are on you?” And fuck, he could almost see it - the way Bellini would be willing to explain himself to Lawrence, to trust Lawrence with his thoughts and ideas, his mind and heart as well as his body. Goffredo had seen the warmth in Bellini’s eyes when he looked at Lawrence, and it burned him, burned him, filled him with a senseless hurt so that he might combust just from its absence now in Bellini’s eyes. Those eyes, so dark and deep and knowing and Goffredo just could not stop talking. 

“Or will you forget him? Lo dimenticherai as soon as you have left him, just as you -”

Bellini blinked, the barest hint of confusion wrinkling his brow, and Goffredo froze, choked, felt his stomach turn with sudden dread. Beh, cazzo . Maybe he could still - 

“Just as I - what?” Bellini asked, aiming for casualness but Goffredo could hear the wariness in his tone. 

“Just as - as you - as you have forgotten Tomasso,” Goffredo grasped at straws. This was a disaster. Bellini needed to leave. Goffredo did not know what he was going to do next, but everything he had ever believed to know about himself was dying tonight, and he could not keep up. His heart ached in his chest. Bellini’s next words, deep with conviction, did nothing to assuage him.

“I will never forget Thomas.” 

They stood on the precipice for another moment, neither daring to move, then abruptly Bellini turned away and reached for the door and Goffredo’s body knew what his mind did not, that Bellini was about to walk away with more than Goffredo had ever risked losing before, and he would be shell of a man. Rotto . Broken.  

“ Proprio come ti dimenticherai di me .”

He hadn’t meant to speak, almost hadn’t recognized his own voice until Bellini whirled from the door, face flushed, eyes wide with shock. “ Che cosa ??” 

It was too much and Goffredo looked away from him, looked at his hands, stared at his right palm which had given them both so much guarded pleasure. He was so weary, all of a sudden, weary of the performance, the pretense, the guilt, the sense of searching but never finding, the sense of striving but never actually achieving his goal. Tired of getting close to Bellini in every way except the one that mattered. He felt his shoulders slump. 

“Of course you will never forget Tomasso. Of course you will not. You think I do not see? You think I do not watch the way you watch him? I tuoi occhi lo seguono ovunque . Every time he come in the room, there is nobody but him. Per te .”

“Wh- what are you saying?” 

Bellini was taking a step closer. Goffredo hunched his shoulders instinctively, protectively.

“Te - Emine - Goffredo. Cosa mi stai dicendo ? ”

His first name in Bellini’s voice nearly undid him. 

“ Vai. Go to him. It’s where you want to be.” The fact that the words barely burned passing his lips was a warning to him how low he had fallen. 

There was a pause, then Bellini said cautiously, “That’s not how you usually dismiss me.” 

Goffredo felt a hollow laugh, and before he could stop himself, he replied. “ Sì, beh . Well. Non è così how you usually come to me.” 

He heard Bellini’s indrawn breath and couldn’t risk looking at him, not when it was so important, not when there was so much on the line. The room was oppressive. The space between them was oppressive. 

“You,” Bellini murmured, and Goffredo heard the shock and wonder in the single word, felt it like a caress, like a memory he knew he would cling to for the rest of his life. He desperately wanted to find his vape. 

“ Credi che dimenticherò Tomasso just as you think I’d forget… you.”

He saw Bellini stumble and for a second his concern overrode his anguish and he almost stepped forward, almost reached for him, and what a disaster that would have been. It was bad enough that their eyes met and he saw the paleness of Bellini’s face, the color slashed high on those incredible cheekbones, the bob of the man’s throat as he swallowed. Goffredo was transfixed.

“Goffredo,” Bellini began, and he’d never heard his own name like that before. Certainly not from the man who’d spent the better part of the past year - of many years - shouting at him in vehement, passionate opposition. 

“I could never - This - This is not meaningless to me. This,” and he watched Bellini summarize them and the room and the whole desperate affair with a flick of his wrist, more elegant and nuanced in a single gesture than Goffredo could ever imagine being in his lifetime.  “I thought -” and here Bellini swallowed, clearly nervous. “But this…was not… it’s not… good, for either of us. You can’t deny that.” 

“No.” Goffredo knew in his bones that Bellini would never see him again, but he could no more have resisted a final touch if the whole room had been on fire. It very well may have been. 

He reached out, fingers trembling, and finally gave Bellini the truth that he knew the other man deserved. Because there was nothing left to lose. “But it was what you wanted. What you expected of me. So, I gave you. And, beh ,” here he spread his hands, a universal Italian gesture to say: here we are. 

Bellini stared at him and Goffredo stared at the world reflected in those incredible eyes. He could barely hear over the rushing of blood in his own ears, his own misery, but shook his head slightly in time to catch the question. “And what - what do you want?”

And here, at the end of everything he thought he knew, everything he thought he believed, his whole world broken open, was something so impossibly simple. “ Permettimi ,” he said, without pretense, his voice unbelievably calm, and then he reached forward and finally, finally slid his fingers over Bellini’s jaw, his thumbs up those cheekbones, and kissed him. 

And the hunger of a year crashed into him, consumed him, flagellated him for never having done this before. Dio e i suoi angeli , how, in all those dozens upon dozens of encounters, had he never allowed himself to kiss the man? All the wicked pleasures he’d felt, all the secret coveted desires, all the moments of teasing and pleasure and pain, each night creating the space for Bellini to rage and beg and want and feel - but how had Goffredo never allowed himself to do the same? 

Unbelievably, Bellini was kissing him back.

He was obviously inexperienced but enthusiastic, his glasses getting in the way each time he tried to angle his head against the pressure of Goffredo’s palms, their noses bumping and rubbing. His fingers curled into the fabric of Goffredo’s unbuttoned cassock, pulling him closer, then trying to shove the garment out of the way. Goffredo mindlessly followed suit until he realized the enormity of what was happening; he braced himself against the realization that Bellini would most certainly shove him away once he had come to his senses after the kiss. “ No, non potresti volerlo … you could not possibly want … not after I have used you most cruelly…” 

He felt Bellini tense slightly, shift with awkward discomfort. 

“Goffredo, you - you didn’t do anything I - didn’t want,” Bellini admitted, dropping his gaze, shy but resolute, and Goffredo felt his stomach tighten with longing. This beautiful man, so wound up in his own conviction and longing and self-depreciation that he could barely allow himself to admit to any pleasure and desire - but he had allowed Goffredo to see it all; had in fact handed himself bodily over to Goffredo night after night - and here he was, staring in the face of his own humanity, and offering himself to Goffredo one last time -  

The enormity of the moment settled squarely on Goffredo’s chest, and he was helpless to resist. 

“Then permettimi , and I will do something even better.”

And he was kissing Bellini, kissing him and kissing him, tasting that gasping mouth, helpless at the feel of Bellini shoving his cassock down his shoulders; he stroked his hand down the front of Bellini’s 33 buttons as he had done that first night, a mimicry of the mockery that had started the whole charade - and he felt Bellini’s hard cock against his hand yet again.

Distantly he heard Bellini saying his name, and he glanced up, then stared, unable to draw his eyes away. Bellini looked wrecked, lips parting and trembling, fumbling for his buttons, eyes shining with tears and emotion. Goffredo’s own chest was heaving, overcome. A year of desire, and he had yet to explore gentleness, affection with this beautiful man in his arms. 

“Did you know it could be così ?” Goffredo heard himself murmuring, given over to the passion rising in his core, one hand rubbing Bellini to hardness through all the fabric, the other hand splayed across his shoulder blades, holding him close, eyes locked on his face. “ Sapevi che I did not have to hurt you to love you?”

He wasn’t prepared for the rush of tenderness when Bellini’s eyes unexpectedly filled with tears that spilled down his cheeks. When Bellini tipped forward, burying his face into Goffredo’s shoulder, an emptiness he had not allowed himself to name was filled. He smoothed his hands down Bellini’s back, over the trim curves of his waist, over his hips as the other man shuddered against him, also clearly overcome. “ Finocchio ,” Goffredo whispered affectionately, an antiquated slur that had nevertheless come to mean a sweet endearment in the recesses of his own mind - in the privacy of their encounters. 

He reached between them to fumble with Bellini’s collar, the rest of the buttons of his cassock, the buttons of his black tab shirt, and underneath that, yet another layer. Giving in to the fear that Bellini would never give him another chance, he leaned in, pressing his mouth to the pulse that pounded in Bellini’s throat, his tongue a slow burning slide on delicate skin, desperate to taste the salt of the other man’s sweat even while his fingers sought an opening beneath each layer, hungry for more skin. “ Che cazzo, Aldino , why so many layers?” and he felt Bellini shudder with desire and laughter against him even as he felt a wordless part of him yearn towards the man in his arms, the easy familiarity of his first name, a longing so deep and profound that it terrified him so he shoved Bellini’s shirt down past his shoulders, unable to stop undressing him, unable to stop holding him closer and closer. 

Bellini stumbled and Goffredo eased him down into the wingback chair, not noticing until he had knelt between the other man’s knees that his hands were pinned in the wrists of the shirt, now beneath him. Goffredo found himself wholly unable to pause, fingers shaking, driven by the fear that if he paused, Bellini would change his mind, would tuck himself in and button himself up again and disappear into the night as he had done at least a hundred times over the past year, leaving Goffredo desolate - 

He unbuckled Bellini’s belt, barely hearing Bellini gasp his name before he unzipped his slacks, slipped open his boxers, and took Bellini’s straining cock into his mouth. 

It had been so many years since he’d done this, but Bellini’s sobbing moan of pure desperation punched through him and nearly undid him; he reached up to cover Bellini’s mouth as he continued to suck with long slow pulls, feeling Bellini’s whole body tremble and tighten, thighs rigid under Goffredo’s hands, stomach fluttering with overstimulation. He took his time, felt Bellini draw closer and closer to the edge, then - 

Some of Goffredo’s bravado surfaced, and he couldn’t resist the opportunity to stir the other man even more. He pulled off with a pop. “ Aspetterai finché ,” he began, then leaned down to lick at Bellini again, unable to get his fill of the salty heat. “ Dovrei tell you to leave now,” he teased, and Bellini sat all the way up, horrified. “You -”

 “ Rilassati, Aldino , I won’t do it.” He placed a palm flat against Bellini’s stomach and gently shoved him back down to sprawl in the chair; Bellini groaned and Goffredo’s own cock throbbed, painfully hard and insistent in his trousers as he leaned forward, applying himself to the task. 

“You haven’t done that to me in months,” Bellini was saying, his voice high and wrecked. Goffredo shuddered to hear it. “Since this started.”

“Mmmmm.” Goffredo drew off again; Bellini gave a high whine that collapsed into a deep groan. “Letting you go ogni notte … it was challenging. But you kept coming back. And I let myself be greedy. I let myself want more.”

Bellini glanced down at him in surprise. “You wanted more?” 

And as if from a distance, Goffredo saw himself, the Patriarch of Venice, kneeling between Aldo Bellini’s thighs, the man before him sprawled and sweating, wrecked and exposed, his hard cock curving upwards toward his belly, caught in the gentle suction of Goffredo’s mouth. 

Bellini was stunning like this, his eyes as wide as saucers, deep pools of emotion, desire, trepidation, self-doubt, wonder. 

“ Tutto, idiota, voglio tutto .” 

He leaned into his task and felt Bellini’s full body shudder, felt him tugging at the wrists of his shirt in earnest, heard the breaths catching in his chest as he clawed for control of his body. He tried to close his thighs and Goffredo shoved them back apart. Bellini writhed, panted, choked, and just as he finally freed one hand, Goffredo sat back on his heels to take stock of the moment. 

All year, he’d participated in a one-sided affair, leaving neither of them sated or satisfied. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to simply get Bellini off then figure out how to pick up the pieces. He refused to fall into anything approaching their pattern. No, this would be different.  

He watched Bellini try to focus his eyes, chest heaving, hand gripping his own thigh, sprawled in the wingback, his black pinned shirt beneath him, threadbare undershirt rucked up, black slacks open, cock jutting upward, red and wet from Goffredo’s mouth. Goffredo was particularly proud of having accomplished this level of debauchery with the notoriously elegant Bellini - and willingly. He had not forced or coerced or cajoled or manipulated - Bellini had not offered an ounce of protest, instead had pressed closer, leaned in, taken what was offered with both hands. It begged the consideration - if Bellini wanted messy, he could have it. 

Goffredo rolled to his feet, unable to resist his own aching cock any longer.  He watched Bellini notice the obvious tenting of his slacks. “ Ti piacerebbe , no? To see?” He unzipped himself and drew his cock out, and was sweetly surprised when Bellini subconsciously licked his lips and leaned forward, startling a laugh out of him. “So eager, eh?” 

Bellini flushed and stared at the carpet, his pulse pounding in his throat. Goffredo reached for his face but drew back when Bellini flinched; Goffredo realized he was feeling the familiar humiliation that Goffredo had inflicted on him each previous occasion - but that was not for tonight. “ Ecco, Aldino ,” he murmured, guiding his cock forward to brush the head against Bellini’s mouth, and was shocked when Bellini opened his mouth and licked at the underside of the head. 

The sight and the sensation were unbearable; Goffredo gripped himself as hard as he dared, the pain grounding him from the overwhelming pleasure, groaning deeply, tears pricking his eyes. He’d never imagined - 

He felt Bellini opening his mouth, taking in the head, utterly inexperienced but learning; he was so clever, always a quick study, and this was no exception. At the first hint of suction Goffredo’s hips kicked forward before he could master himself, and he leaned forward to brace one hand on the back of the wingback, his other hand gripping the base of his cock so he would not release immediately as he was in danger of doing. “ Finocchio ,” he gasped, utterly undone, watching in disbelief as Bellini learned to lick and suck and provoke a reaction. His hands were on his thighs. Goffredo blinked away tears and wished Bellini would reach up and touch him, just a hand to his belly, or his hip, or his thigh, or his - his - oh, that mouth - quella bocca - 

Finally Goffredo pulled back with a breathless laugh, a heartbeat from the edge. “ Bravo, Aldino, Dio mio ,” he gasped, then reached down and grasped Bellini’s shoulder, sliding a knee alongside the outside of Bellini’s own trembling thighs, effectively pinning him back in the chair. This placed his cock directly at Bellini’s eye level; he stared as Goffredo continued to stroke himself. 

He was beyond finesse, beyond sense, the passion rising in him like a tidal wave. “ Ogni notte ,” he heard himself confessing: “Every time you left, così . You left me like this.”

Bellini stared in disbelief, and Goffredo’s focus sharpened like the point of a pin: he would convince this man, this sweet brilliant trembling beautiful man, of the intensity of his desire. His longing. He would leave no room for doubt. Bellini would understand. Bellini would believe him. Bellini would never again question his worth, his irresistibilità - he would - he -

Their eyes met, locked, and Goffredo was undone. He surrendered to the pull of his passion, twisting his wrist as his vision whited out and his breath stopped and he came across Bellini’s heaving chest in burning spurts. His whole body shook, melted, and pleasure ricocheted through his limbs and settled in his core, a hot molten liquid. 

Beneath him he heard Bellini whisper hoarsely, “ Per favore, Eminenza . Goffredo. Please .”

Bellini had never begged; Goffredo was at once transfixed by the knowledge that the brilliant mind before him was ensnared in the same passion and desire and desperation. For Goffredo . Feeling profoundly responsible for seeing this through, giving Bellini pleasure so truly deserved, he lowered himself on rubbery knees back to the floor between Bellini’s thighs, still panting, noticing the way the man was squirming and twitching subconsciously, hips thrusting minutely, his desire overriding his fine motor skills, rendering him desperate. Goffredo made sure to cover his mouth again before sucking his cock straight down - he felt Bellini’s entire body go rigid, his limbs spasm - felt the lips part beneath his hand as Bellini sucked in a desperate breath -

Goffredo drew back for just a second, knowing that the pleasure and the ache and the want and the need would coalesce - he felt Bellini cry out against his hand, a desperate, broken sound - Bellini was beyond teasing, beyond dignity, beyond sense - there was only il bisogno - 

Then Goffredo lowered his mouth, and swallowed, and Bellini fell apart. 

His body shuddered so hard Goffredo felt the chair creak beneath him; his fingers dug into his thighs, his back arched so hard that Goffredo’s hand was dislodged. His chest constricted for a long, long moment, every muscle in his abdomen knitted tight, before his hips began to roll subtly, a fluid intrinsic movement as his pleasure finally, finally crested and ebbed and drained away. 

Goffredo stood, knees and lower back protesting - he was not a young man any more - and wiped at his mouth and chin - he was also, predictably, out of practice, and Bellini had been…effusive. He fastened and straightened his slacks, then speculatively stroked his thumb against his lower lip, gazing down at the man in the chair before him - eyes closed, head fallen to one side, panting, chest heaving, cock softening on his stomach, Goffredo’s release striping the front of his shirt - and felt an affection and protectiveness so strong that he had to stop himself from gathering Bellini up in his arms and carrying him to the bedroom. Had to deliberately, consciously halt the compulsion to soothe, to calm, to cradle, anything to see those eyes open and smile at him, with intelligenza e affetto .

He refused to acknowledge the abyss in the back of his mind whispering, Non ti permetterà mai più di toccarlo. Never again. 

Bellini blinked. “Goffredo?”

“ Sono qui, Aldino .” Goffredo replied immediately - he would never let Bellini feel abandoned again, not even for a second; because he could not help himself, he reached down and touched Bellini’s face with gentle fingertips, tracing his cheekbone down to his chin, and allowed the slightest release of the emotion building in his chest. “ Quanto sei bello .”

Bellini blushed under his fingers, shy and endearing, and shifted forward to stand. Goffredo took his hands and helped him to his feet. When Bellini let go to tuck himself in, Goffredo clasped his own trembling fingers together, certain he was watching the beginning of the end as he had so many times already. Bellini preparing to leave. Bellini preparing to resume the charade of indifference. Goffredo now knew he could not do that. He couldn’t return to the way things had been over the past year. But he didn’t know what to do. He could no more allow Bellini to walk away than he could stop him. 

“Next time, less shirt, no?” he attempted to joke, hearing the breathless anticipation of misery in his tone, and Bellini’s head snapped up, his mouth forming the words, next time ? 

Goffredo took a deep shuddering breath, and released it on what might have been a prayer. “Yes, next time. You come back to me così, capito ? No more,” he waved a hand. “No more pretending like you don’t want. No more leaving like that. No more,” and he cupped Bellini’s face in his hands, forcing their gazes to lock. “No more, hai capito ? Only così .” 

There was a heartbeat in which he thought Bellini might pull away, or refuse him, and he could feel the heartbreak looming like a thundercloud - until Bellini brought his hands up to press against the backs of Goffredo’s hands, the palms still pressed to Bellini’s own face. Goffredo could feel Bellini’s thumbs stroking the backs of his fingers, and the relief was so sudden and so strong that he felt tears prick his eyes when Bellini nodded. 

“ Sì , okay, Goffredo? Sì ,” and then Bellini was looking at him, really studying his face with a candor and intensity that pinned Goffredo to the spot - there was no shame, no humility, just regard. Now Bellini reached forward and swiped his thumb on Goffredo’s cheek and he realized that one of the tears must have spilled over. 

“ Per quanto tempo ,” Bellini murmured, wondering. “How long have you been carrying this?”

“The whole time, caro . The whole time. Come potrei non farlo? ” 

Goffredo grinned helplessly at Bellini’s disbelieving stare, something cracking open in his chest. “ Come potrei non farlo ,” he repeated, gently, his whole body aching, leaning unconsciously forward towards the man before him, who held Goffredo in his hands. Bellini turned his hand over and stroked the backs of his fingers down Goffredo’s beard, and Goffredo let his eyes fall closed, let his breath pass through trembling lips, let his whole world narrow to that touch. He felt Bellini sigh, then both of the other man’s hands were on him, carding through his curls, passing gently down his neck and shoulders, and Goffredo discovered that he was leaning into the touch.

“ Come un grosso gatto veneziano ,” he heard Bellini tease gently, and Goffredo snorted with unexpected pleasure. He opened watery eyes to Bellini’s warm gaze, which creased with sudden wryness. “Oh, c’mere,” he murmured, and started to draw Goffredo into a hug before he remembered his shirt. Then they were both snorting with inappropriate laughter, Goffredo’s whole body feeling bright and weak with relief. He reached for the hem of the shirt and tugged it upwards, ignoring Bellini’s yelp of surprise as he stripped it off and tossed it aside, then gathered the smaller man close, running his hands over smooth soft skin turned delicate with age. 

“You’re still so dressed,” Bellini chided, his voice muffled from where he’d pressed his face into Goffredo’s shoulder.  

“ E cosa ? Do something about it.” 

Bellini ran his hands up the front of Goffredo’s tab shirt, up his chest, where they came to rest on his shoulders, and the two men paused and looked at each other. 

He could practically hear the gears turning in Bellini’s head - the man’s mind was constantly at work. 

“ Lo sai che non posso restare ,” Bellini began gently, carefully. “But I - I don’t want to go.” He seemed surprised at his own words, or perhaps at his own daring. Just as gently, just as carefully, Goffredo lowered his forehead to Bellini’s. “ E così ,” he said, their breath mingling. “ Ma torna e basta .” And Bellini nodded against him, drawing him in, and Goffredo Tedesco, Patriarch of Venice, finally felt himself being seen, and known, and held.